them all—­the white sun, with its glazed, coalescing, lurid fire; the caked split lips and rasping, dry-puffed tongue; the sickening ache in the pit of his stomach; the insupportable silence, the empty space, the utter desolation, the contempt of life; the weary ride, the long climb, the plod in sand, the search, search, search for water; the sleepless night alone, the watch and wait, the dread of ambush, the swift flight; the fierce pursuit of men wild as Bedouins and as fleet, the willingness to deal sudden death, the pain of poison thorn, the stinging tear of lead through flesh; and that strange paradox of the burning desert, the cold at night, the piercing icy wind, the dew that penetrated to the marrow, the numbing desert cold of the dawn.

Beyond any dream of adventure he had ever had, beyond any wild story he had ever read, had been his experience with those hard-riding rangers, Ladd and Lash.  Then he had traveled alone the hundred miles of desert between Forlorn River and the Sonoyta Oasis.  Ladd’s prophecy of trouble on the border had been mild compared to what had become the actuality.  With rebel occupancy of the garrison at Casita, outlaws, bandits, raiders in rioting bands had spread westward.  Like troops of Arabs, magnificently mounted, they were here, there, everywhere along the line; and if murder and worse were confined to the Mexican side, pillage and raiding were perpetrated across the border.  Many a dark-skinned raider bestrode one of Belding’s fast horses, and indeed all except his selected white thoroughbreds had been stolen.  So the job of the rangers had become more than a patrolling of the boundary line to keep Japanese and Chinese from being smuggled into the United States.  Belding kept close at home to protect his family and to hold his property.  But the three rangers, in fulfilling their duty had incurred risks on their own side of the line, had been outraged, robbed, pursued, and injured on the other.  Some of the few waterholes that had to be reached lay far across the border in Mexican territory.  Horses had to drink, men had to drink; and Ladd and Lash were not of the stripe that forsook a task because of danger.  Slow to wrath at first, as became men who had long lived peaceful lives, they had at length revolted; and desert vultures could have told a gruesome story.  Made a comrade and ally of these bordermen, Dick Gale had leaped at the desert action and strife with an intensity of heart and a rare physical ability which accounted for the remarkable fact that he had not yet fallen by the way.

On this December afternoon the three rangers, as often, were separated.  Lash was far to the westward of Sonoyta, somewhere along Camino del Diablo, that terrible Devil’s Road, where many desert wayfarers had perished.  Ladd had long been overdue in a prearranged meeting with Gale.  The fact that Ladd had not shown up miles west of the Papago Well was significant.

The sun had hidden behind clouds all the latter part of that day, an unusual occurrence for that region even in winter.  And now, as the light waned suddenly, telling of the hidden sunset, a cold dry, penetrating wind sprang up and blew in Gale’s face.  Not at first, but by imperceptible degrees it chilled him.  He untied his coat from the back of the saddle and put it on.  A few cold drops of rain touched his cheek.